Compassion
by dragonstep
Summary: "I met them when I came to warn them of death marching towards them. When I left, they were prepared to march into death's open arms." Solas and Lavellan's relationship through Cole's eyes.


I met them when I came to warn them of death marching towards them.

The red surrounded us, singing its maddening song, swallowing the souls of the downtrodden templars that had once sung the song of the beast of stone, but now they screeched, screaming, staggering, succumbing beneath the weight of their sins. The blight. It was forced upon most of them, but some took it willingly. They paid dearly for their mistakes.

She was very loud, at first. It was her mark. It was too bright; it made it so hard to see, but her fear broke through to me. She feared for them. Haven would be crushed, and there was nothing she could do. Well, almost nothing. We soon discovered the trebuchets. Buried in the snow, the singing was muffled, but not silenced. It would never be silenced until the composer was gone.

He was gentler. He was overwhelmed with guilt, but I could not stop to help him. We were too busy. He blamed himself, but I did not know what for. I did not have time to ask.

We fought through, dragging friendly bodies from the flames and throwing unfriendly bodies in. Not all of them sang the sickening song. Many of them just screamed. We were rough, roguish, riled, ruthless, but we had to be. We had no choice. They were going to kill us. They were going to kill everyone.

I guided them through the passageways, since I could hear Roderick. The Pilgrims path was silent. Hearts were heavy. We reached the pass and turned to watch our defender fall. She was really their defender, but by my very nature, I was one of them in that moment. Fear, fury, absolute agony, they watched her buried beneath the snow. We had to keep moving. We could not turn back.

There were so many hurts, even as we stopped. It made my head hurt, but I would do what I was meant to do. I would help them. One at a time, one by one, I did whatever I could.

He was lost. His heart ached for her, but he did not wish it taken from him. He wanted to suffer. He sat alone, gazing in the direction we had come, not daring to hope, but quietly kindling desperation deep in his heart, hiding it from himself, should he snuff it out. He was complicated.

When she returned, their voices rose into the sky, sweet symphonies of solemn devotion. They loved her. He loved her more, but he had not admitted that to himself. Not yet.

He admitted it when he took her into a dream. The memory played over in his head, again and again, it felt so right to kiss her, but he knew he shouldn't. He did not want to be cruel to her. Fierce fidelity, he felt he was misleading her, so I tried to help. He loved her, and she loved him, so what was wrong? He would not tell me. He told me not to ask.

He gazed at her with open adoration, admiring the way she moved in battle, believing she was his salvation, denying himself the sanctuary she offered. It hurt her. He wanted so badly to keep her from the frying pan that he tossed her into the fire. She ached for him, longing to hold his hand, to hear his voice telling her what she already knew to be true, but she wanted to hear it. She wanted to hear it.

Vhenan.

Guileless, he thought she was, guilt grabbed at the dark edges of his mind, but that was where I could help. I could ease whatever was causing him to withhold himself from allowing her to love him. He let himself love, he told himself, what could be the harm? For now, at least. It made her so happy.

She was very kind to me. She made me more me. I could see past the blidning light of her mark, to hear the own song pouring from her heart. Gentle, graceful, glorious, she demanded respect and earned loyalty. He was so proud of what she had become that he had forgotten his own nature. I could see him now; he could not hide from me. I still could not help.

She loved him with everything she had. Pure, perfect, powerful, proud, her love for him spilled over, pushing her to new heights, shaping her into someone worthy of the title Inquisitor. Forgiving, fortunate, faithful, fearless, they could not fathom the weight on her shoulders, but I could. I could help. Not too much, I didn't want to take too much, but I could make things easier. She never knew. The blank eyes of a dead child as he gazed up at the sky; blighted lyrium had torn his body to shreds. I made her forget. What the Freemen did to that poor girl, I took from her mind. I took things she did not need, things that would hurt and not help. That was what I was made for.

Then he shattered her heart.

Broken, bleeding, blundering, begging, she screamed to the sky, why had he done this? I knew. I could not tell her. He told her to use the pain to harden her heard like a blade, but didn't he know that love didn't work that way? Vengance is what hardened him, a murder took his first love away, but this was not the same. Willing separation is far more devastating.

I did what I could, though it wasn't much. She held her chin high, putting on a mask, like those at the ball, but hers was her own face. On the inside, torture, torment, a twisting tirade of the tenacious burden of heartbreak. When he vanished, she was broken.

When we found him again, it only got worse. She vowed to redeem him, but knew deep within her heart that he was beyond redemption. Choking, crying, she could not stand the pain. She asked me to take it from her, but I am not Nightmare. I cannot, I will not do this. She understood. It was my turn to hurt.

I met them when I came to warn them of death marching towards them. When I left, they were prepared to march into death's open arms.


End file.
